Some say that our lives are defined by the sum of our choices but it isn't really our choices that distinguish who we are . . . it's our commitment to them. In an arranged marriage, love is a luxury; friendship is not.
(Oliver Q./OC)
"I'm not the man you wanna to take for a fool, Mr. Queen. You understand me?" John Diggle, 1.02
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My hands were in my lap.
And my heart was in my throat.
Our plane landed at just past six and we were home. Starling City was a jewel in the early evening, under the rainy shine of streetlights and the stadium; all lit up – . . . spotlights dancing off the clouds.
"There's a game."
Oliver turned his head, fixing on the stadium. He smiled, "I know. Starling Comets versus the Seahawks tonight."
I leaned back against the butter soft leather seats of the town car.
"You like baseball?"
"Baseball season ended in October," he said. "That's football."
"Ah, so you're a sports guy," I teased, bumping shoulders and Oliver caught my hand, lacing our fingers. Comfortable now, touching me, in a way he hadn't been the day we were married.
But of course I'd gotten to know him pretty well since then, too.
"If I net us a couple tickets," he said, grinning with poorly concealed enthusiasm, "would you want to go? With me."
"You think I'd like that?"
"Nothing beats catching a live game," he said. "If you're interested then yeah, I think you'd love it."
I smiled, and covered our clasped hands with my other. He gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. Our driver was watching us in the rearview mirror. Headlights sliding like the memory of ghosts over his face.
I didn't recognize the driver.
We cruised close to the stadium on our way out of the city, leaving the glittering lights, the cool drizzle that couldn't decide if it was fog, or rain, to the people.
The highway was dark.
Streetlights spaced much further apart – and even those would disappear entirely past the city limit. But we weren't going that far. The Queen mansion rose up out of the darkness, its lights liming the bloated bellies of charcoal clouds.
Oliver passed his thumb in a gentle sweep over the back of my hand and I smiled up at him. He was glad to be home. I wasn't so sure what to feel. But keeping that sparkling smile, the warmth, all flush and cozy from our honeymoon . . . these were easy games . . .
I looked again at the rearview. Our driver's eyes were still on the road. Sweat glistened at his hairline. He turned onto the smooth-paved driveway of the final leg of our trip with a bit of a swing, and the weight lodged in my throat sank lower.
Home. We – I was home.
Oliver's family had gathered to welcome us.
That was his sister's head peeking through the curtains, opening a clear slice of yellow light that cut sharply across the night-dark lawn. The front door opened and out stepped Moira, followed closely by the tall, broad-shouldered Walter.
